Present…

The body of Melissa Harrison was found later that day in a bathtub filled with bleach. The neighbours had complained about an awful smell and the landlord had come in to investigate. Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived at the scene an hour after her body was found.

He couldn't figure this guy out. He would pick them up at random pubs and take them to various locations around London, had sex with them multiple times and then killed them. He left plenty of evidence, plenty of fluids, blood and clues and yet no one knew whom he was. He wasn't in the system, his DNA didn't match anyone in the system, which meant either he was nobody important (but Lestrade didn't believe anyone could not be important so someone somewhere) or he was well connected.

This was the tenth person in three months to be killed and the press was outraged. Lestrade was receiving calls from people he hadn't even known were his bosses demanding results. He had no leads. No suspects. All he had were ten dead women and men in the morgue, DNA that matched absolutely no one and an ego that refused to let Sherlock take a look. He looked down at the girl in the bathtub, her pale flesh withered and soapy looking, her wrists were cut and yet there wasn't any blood except for a few drops on the floor. Whoever did this was obviously a very sick man.

"You might want to here this," Donavan's voice said from behind him. Lestrade turned, taking one last look at disturbing body before following her out of the room. She led him to the hallway, he waved at Anderson before turning to the man she brought him to. "Tell 'Im what you told me."

"How many more times do I gotta tell you?" the man bellowed. "The bloke who lived here was named John Watson!"

Lestrade took a step back, shocked. John Watson. John bloody Watson owned this apartment. "Doctor John Watson?"

"I ne'er heard 'im say he were a doctor," the man replied. "But he did have a snooty look about 'im. Like you lot do." He turned away from them and left. "It makes sense," Donavan said. Lestrade turned to her, eyebrow cocked, daring her to continue. She didn't take the hint and added, "Sherlock knows how the police works, he can easily get rid of evidence and make it look like someone else did. He has dead bodies in his kitchen and-"

"Enough." Lestrade shook his head, not believing a word but since John's name was brought up, he had no choice but to bring him in. "Pick them up."

John knew he was fucked the moment Sherlock stood before him, hands behind his back, and said, "I want you."

John was sitting in his comfy chair reading the newspaper when Sherlock had finally arisen for the ever-lasting boredom that had kept him in his room for nearly three days. John had tried to get Sherlock to get out of his room but had failed. A few insults later, John gave up, leaving Sherlock to his things (whatever it was he was doing in that room) only going back to leave him a tray of food, which Sherlock pecked at but never finished. John knew Sherlock was ticked off because for once Greg didn't want him on the serial murder case that he'd recently been assigned to. John knew Greg wanted to solve a case without the help of the detective.

He'd become used to the quiet, no science experiments blowing up in the kitchen, not insurable groans of boredom originating from Sherlock's mouth. Baker Street was quiet for once. Until Sherlock left his room, showered and stood in front of John. He wore the purple shirt that clung to his thin frame, and a well-tailored suit instead of his robe and pyjamas. That was a good sign. The rest was not.

"I want you, John," Sherlock repeated.

John briefly looked up from his newspaper, flipping the page as he glanced at the detective and asked, "What do you want?"

"You."

"What do you want me to do?" John asked looking back down at the paper in an attempt to think away the blush that was creeping upon his cheeks. Sherlock had the tendency to say things only to record John's reactions. A verbal experiment on social behaviour and since no one liked Sherlock, John was his lab rat. He had been through this before and had learned that ignoring the blatant sexual undertone was the best course of action.

Sherlock came around to stand in front of John, taking the newspaper out of his hands and throwing over his shoulder. He crouched down on the tip of his toes, now at eye level with John. The intensity of his eyes was overwhelming. John looked away, unable to stop from blushing. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock smile and it was enough to tick him off.

"Get up, Sherlock," John said motioning upwards with his hands. "You'll crinkle your expensive suit."

"Since when do you care about my suits?"

"I don't." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his lips still pulled up in a smile. John rolled his eyes. "Last time you wrinkled your suit, you threw it out a window. It hit a man on a bike who then crashed into-"

" - I remember."

"Then get off the bloody floor."

A pause. John looked back at Sherlock and saw defiance in his eyes. So very different from the intensity it replaced. For a moment, John was scared. The last time he had that look in his eyes, Sherlock was facing Moriarty. As an unwilling bomb, John had only Sherlock's face to look at whilst his heartbeat raced like a prized stallion horse. The look on the detective's face was both fascinating and frightening.

Sherlock shook his head. "Make me."

"Sherlock," John scolded. "Get. Up."

"Make. Me." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, a challenge in his eyes. "Captain John Watson. Did you earn that by asking nicely?"

"Sherlock. Get up or else," John warned, chewing at his lower lip not wanting to walk into Sherlock's trap. He had to keep his cool, he had to control his emotions or else he was lost.

"Or else what, John?" Sherlock questioned with a smile. "What are you going to do?"

Before John had a chance to answer, Mrs Hudson bellowed from down the stairs, "Boys! There is someone at the door for you!"

"Let them up!" Sherlock bellowed back, never taking his eyes off John who fidgeted in his seat. He leaned forward slightly and whispered, "This isn't over, John."

The next thing John knew he was being handcuffed and pushed into a police car. He heard Sherlock asked under what right did they have to arrest him and how dare Lestrade do this just to get him to the Yard. John didn't know what insulted him more, the fact that Greg had wanted him arrested or that Sherlock didn't think he was possible to do something worthy of an arrest.

He had no choice but to allow himself to be tossed into the car and be taken to the Yard. Sherlock joined him a few moments after arriving, having followed the car in a taxi. He demanded John be released all the way to the fifth floor of the building and once John was taken to an interrogation room, Sherlock decided that he would act as John's lawyer.

"You're quiet for someone who's being accused of murder," Sherlock said, leaning back on the wall behind John. "Why?"

"If I make a fuss, they might think I actually did it," John pointed out. "Besides, if I was to kill anyone, I would have started with you."

"Sentiment?" Sherlock asked.

"Annoyance," John returned without looking at him. "I didn't kill anyone, Sherlock. And if you try and tell them so, they'll just think you're covering for me. We're friends and that's what friends do."

"I know you did not, John. You need not convince me of your innocence." He came around John and faced him, sitting on the chair opposite. "It is Lestrade we must convince and you know how simple minded he is."

"Greg is not-" John stopped as the door opened and in came Lestrade himself. He smiled at the two men, holding a folder in his hands. He closed the door behind him and approached them. "Lestrade."

"John. Sherlock." He nodded to them both, putting down the folder on the table and sliding it to Sherlock. "This is everything we've got on the killer." He held up a hand when John opened his mouth. "I know you didn't kill anyone, John. Someone very high up on the chain of command provided information that … cleared your name."

John looked to Sherlock, eyes narrowed. He had something to do with it; John could see it in his eyes. Mycroft. But why would Sherlock call Mycroft for help? He wouldn't call his brother for something like this... would he? As far as he knew, the two had an understanding. But he and Sherlock would have to discuss it later judging by the contents of the folder Lestrade spread about the on the table. The serial murderer case was finally in Sherlock's eager hands and nothing, not even a murderer, was more dangerous than Sherlock on a case.

"It started about three months back," the DI began. "A twenty year old female was found under a bridge by a homeless man. She had bruises along her hips and thighs and two finger-like bruises around her throat. Her trachea was broken. She was strangled and raped.

"A week later another body. Twenty five year old female found in an alley. At the time they were two separate murders but the coroner was able to link them by the pattern of the bruises and DNA found inside the bodies. We had a murderer on our hands.

"Another week: another body. Every week for three months there has been a dead female found in one place or another. Trachea broken, bruised hips and thighs, signs of sex before death and there was one more thing." He pulled out a photograph, holding it out to Sherlock. He took it and blinked, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion. Sherlock held it out towards John as Lestrade continued. "The killer left a note. It is why we are calling it the Lost Murderer. Each of the victims had the words 'Find Me' burned into their flesh.

"The first one had it burned into her scalp; the second on the back of the neck; third and fifth on the arms; fourth and sixth on the legs; seventh on her lower back; eight on her breast and ninth on her face. Tenth victim was found this morning in a bathtub full of bleach. He killed twice in one week now."

"Where was the note on her?" John asked.

"On the clavicle, right above the range of the bleach," Lestrade answered. "The landlord was abled to give us a name and a description of the man."

"Why haven't you arrested him, then?" John asked, looking at Sherlock who had been quite the whole time. "Why arrest me?

"The name given was John Watson," Lestrade explained. "That is why I had you brought in."

"Well, I didn't do this," John said. "I can't be the only John Watson in London. I –"

"We aren't charging you with anything, John. But now that you two are down here, might as well let you in on the case. I'll have the files brought in here and when you find anything, let me know." He directed the last bit more to John than Sherlock who was already looking through the files, sifting through the file rapidly.

John and Sherlock were left alone with a folder full of photographs of dead men and women.